The Red Spider
by Mojave Dragonfly
Summary: El runs into trouble. Sands exploits it.
1. Deja Vu All Over Again

A/N: This story is a sequel to Sons of Mexico (story id 1900497). I'll give it a title when I know what it's about.

Disclaimers: I own nothing to do with Once Upon A Time in Mexico, except a copy of the DVD. The rights to everything here belong to Columbia, or Troublemaker Studios, or Robert Rodriquez, or someone, not to me.

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Deja Vu All Over Again 

El Mariachi was being followed. This did not surprise him, but it was a nuisance. He had no desire to lead any enemies to his village, and home to his village was where he was headed.

He was returning from a visit to El Presidente, where he had been presented with a medal, and the irony still amused him. Not a year ago, he had been on the AFN's most wanted list, as well as Enemy Number One of most of Mexico's drug cartels. "Is there anyone who doesn't want you dead?" CIA Agent Sands had asked him.

Not many, he would have had to admit, but now "El Mariachi," the only name he would give even the President, was a hero to the country, and even more hated by the cartels. Not that the country knew anything of his medal; he'd insisted on that, but at least the police and government forces were no longer among his enemies. He'd accepted the medal for saving the President's life, but it made him uncomfortable to receive credit for dismantling Julio Delgado's drug empire. That had been the doing of another man.

He stopped in the next small town, and entered a bar. The town looked like hundreds of other Mexican towns, and the bar had the familiar layout. It would do.

Agent Sands was the man who had brought down the Delgado empire, and El was still in awe of how he'd done it. When he'd tried to explain to El Presidente that a blind, amoral, wounded American agent, a prisoner and hooked on cocaine, had been the architect of that deed . . . well, he hadn't been very convincing.

Dressed in his black Mariachi suit, he was confident he would be easily recognized. He kept with him his guitar case full of weapons, and leaned it carefully next to a barstool. The man behind the bar looked younger than he expected, and regarded him with wide eyes as he ordered a beer. He took his beer and a bottle of soda water to an empty table, ignoring the stares of the usually sleepy local patrons. He positioned his guitar case beside him for easy access, and drank the water. The beer was only for normalcy's sake. Even its minor effect on his responses would be dangerous now.

As he waited to be attacked, he thought about Sands. Sands had lived through detox, locked in a room in the old fort in Guitar Town, but he didn't seem to have recovered. Weak and listless, he seldom ventured from his room in the fort, and he did little to occupy himself that El could see.

_"I put a razor and a comb and a toothbrush on the sink. Your clothes aren't back yet, but I think these will fit you." El studied the wasted form of the other man, wondering what he was feeling. Was he angry at El for freeing him from cocaine? Had El made yet another mortal enemy? _

_Sands lay face down on his pallet on the floor, his head turned to one side. "What are you still doing here?" he asked. "Don't you have, you know, mariachi things to do?"_

_El frowned. Of course he was still here; he was responsible for Sands, now. At least until he could get the agent back on his feet and restored to his own people._

_"How do you feel?" he asked. He tried not to ask it too often, but he wanted to know. Only a week before, this man had been screaming in desperation for a fix._

_"Why do you care?"_

_"I am curious. What do you feel like?" _

_"I feel like I was hit by a truck and knocked off a cliff, okay? Just leave me alone."_

_El nodded to himself. That would feel pretty bad. "Do you still have a fever?"_

_"How the fuck would I know?"_

_It didn't seem like a good time to check Sands physically for fever. At least he was responding more than he had been. Father Soto said that Sands had used up his supply of strength and joy, and wouldn't recover either for some time. El glanced around the windowless room, looking for any inspiration to encourage Sands to make an effort. _

_"Are you hungry?" Sands's appetite had been intense since the cocaine had left his system, and the snack items El tried to keep stocked in his room were gone, paper wrappings on the floor testifying to their demise._

_"Geez, El, you are such a woman." _

_El waited. The meals he cooked were not gourmet; he was a practical man, and Father Soto was little better. However, some of the women in the village, curious about the blind invalid, had been sending food to the fort. Rumors of a blind gunfighter wiping out dozens of Barillo's men in Culiacan had reached El's village. Señora Perez had sent some delicious meals via her two daughters. _

_"Yes," Sands admitted through tight lips._

_El smiled. "Come to the kitchen. I will be the woman some more and cook." It was the first time El had suggested that Sands's meal be taken somewhere other than his room, but he dared not make it an ultimatum. El's instincts told him it would be fruitless to try to make Sands get up and leave his room for his own good. Sands knew El or Father Soto would bring him food if he refused to move; nourishment was too important to his recovery to neglect. _

To El's mild surprise, a woman approached him from the bar, an apprehensive expression on her face. El had not noticed a woman in the bar before.

"Señor," she said, with a respectful dip of her head.

El looked at her, not responding. There would be shooting soon, and he preferred that there not be a woman in the place.

The woman glanced back toward the bar, where the young barkeeper watched the two of them, also looking apprehensive. "Señor, the other bar in town serves much better beer. They have an excellent cook, as well, and could give you a good meal." She gulped. "My husband, he is happy to buy you this beer, but then could you please leave?"

El Mariachi stared at her. "You're kicking me out?"

"No! No, Señor," she said, with a frightened glance back to the bar. "We're inviting you to patronize a better establishment." Her expression changed, and she settled gingerly into a chair at his table. "Please, Señor. We have only just finished repairs from the last time you shot up our bar. The other bar is owned by my husband's rival - a very wealthy man. Couldn't you go there?"

No wonder the place seemed familiar. El looked past her to the bartender. "You send your wife to do your work?" he called.

"No!" cried the wife, before the man could answer. "I was afraid you would shoot him if he asked you to leave. Please, Señor? The other bar is very nice."

Bemused, El stood and collected his guitar case and his water, leaving the untouched beer. "Tell them where I am, when they come," he said, ignoring the chorus of "gracias" he left behind.

_Mierde._


	2. El Club Dumas

_El Club Dumas_

El left his car, a black jeep, parked in front of the first bar, and walked to the second bar on the opposite side of the street, and down about two blocks. He collected stares from young boys, some of whom dropped their games and ran away. A yellow, flop-eared dog barked at him, though his long feathery tail wagged.

"It wasn't my fault!" El said to one boy, who promptly scampered off. He smiled to himself, remembering how often he had protested that to Buscemi, all those years ago. His smile faded as the melancholy set in that came whenever he considered any of his many dead friends.

Buscemi had not abandoned him as he sought revenge on Bucho's cartel, also dispatching any other cartel presence he encountered along the way. The gringo had been his friend, closer in many ways than a brother, but he'd been frightened by the darkness he'd seen in El. El had been frightened by it, too, but had been helpless to end it. Until Carolina, but by then Buscemi was dead.

Now a second gringo had landed on El's doorstep. One he trusted like a brother, which is to say, not at all.

_"What are you still doing here?" Sands asked again a month later as he slouched over the plate of food El had served him at the kitchen table._

_"What else would I do?" El stirred the meat and vegetables he was preparing for Sands's third helping. "You're the one who said I have nothing to live for."_

_"Yeah, well, the tables are turned now. Laugh it up."_

_"If we had cocaine," El asked, " would you want it?"_

_Sands's head snapped up. "What the fuck!" His whole body tensed, as if someone had shot at him._

_El paused, glancing uneasily at him. "I just wondered."_

_"You don't … you don't have cocaine." Sands's breathing quickened._

_"No, of course not."_

_Sands sagged, trembling slightly. "Don't fuck with me like that. I swear to God I'll kill you if you do that again."_

_Chagrined, El took the skillet from the stove, and shoveled the fried food onto Sands's plate. "I thought it would be out of you by now."_

_Sands shoved the plate away. "That's not the point! You don't know. You don't know shit. It's like being in Paradise and then being kicked out. Nothing's ever going to be worth shit. And it's fucking dark here."_

_El thought about that. He thought he might feel the same way, under the circumstances. He wondered what would have happened if he had turned to drugs to lessen his grief rather than to guns. A lot of people might still be alive. Then he remembered Sands's energy and strength, not to mention immense mood swings when he'd been hopped up. No, El decided, even more people would be dead._

_"So you will take your share of the diamonds and go find cocaine when you are ready to leave here?" he asked, making no judgment._

_"I … don't … let's talk about something else, okay?" Perspiration beaded on Sands's too pale face._

_"Look at you," El said in wonderment. "You still crave it." The discussion alone seemed to be causing Sands pain._

_"Oh shut up."_

_"Is it as bad as before?" El asked._

_"Nothing could ever be that bad. Christ. Did I thank you for what you did?"_

_"No."_

_"Good. I'm going back to bed."_

_Sands left the kitchen, navigating confidently, so El finished his dinner._

El passed two German luxury cars parked outside the other bar. The dog, which had been following him, barking with some excitement, lifted his leg and peed on one of the tires. This place was called El Club Dumas, and was definitely owned by someone wealthy. Calling it a "club" was giving it airs, but it was a themed bar, festooned with movie and book memorabilia from The Three Musketeers and other works of Dumas's that El didn't know.

Conversation ceased as El entered. He paused at the threshold, partly to take in the setting for combat planning, and partly for effect. In another bar, he'd be challenged at gunpoint to open his guitar case before being allowed to enter, but this place was too suave for such blunt tactics. The patrons regarded him with hostile curiosity. These men were hard-core, not like the villagers in the first bar. Expensive watches winked on their wrists, and Italian shoes squeaked on their feet. No one this far off the beaten path had this kind of wealth from legal sources. A smile twisted his lips and he walked, spurs jingling, up to the bar. The yellow dog trotted in behind him.

"Cerveza," he said. The bewhiskered bartender responded slowly, to show he was not intimidated, pulling a slow draught from a handle with no beer logo on it. The local, cheap stuff.

"Gracias," said El. He pretended to take a drink. The bartender exchanged glances with one of the other patrons at the bar, and then glanced at the phone.

El leaned on the bar and took a swig from the bottled water he'd brought in. "Make a call, if you need to," he said.

The bartender scowled, then pasted a smile on his ruddy face. "How is the beer?" he asked.

"This beer?" El asked. The man nodded. Everyone watched. El pretended to take another drink of the beer, wiped the froth from his face, and dumped the beer out on the floor. "It stinks."

For a frozen moment, nothing happened. Then the bartender chuckled, and the other men relaxed. Hyper-aware of every movement in the room, El saw one slick-haired young dandy reach for . . .

A cell phone. No need to shoot him yet.

Watched avidly by everyone in the place, El took his bottle of water and guitar case and started for a table. He had to step around the yellow dog, which was lapping at the beer by his feet. The man with the cell phone turned his back and tried to be inconspicuous as he placed his call.

This place had large windows, another indicator of affluence, so El was able to find a table at the front that gave him a view down the street to his jeep and the other bar. He sat, finished his water, and positioned his guitar case.

When he glanced back toward the bar, he saw the yellow dog cease his eager lapping and keel over into the puddle of beer.

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A/N: Thanks for the reviews, you guys! I try to answer individually, but Morinen and DeppDRACOmaniac, I didn't have any email address for you. 

DeppDRACOmaniac asked:  
_1. Will there be lots of Sands in this story? PLEASE tell me there will be!_  
Oh, yes. What fun would a story be without him?

_2. Will Sands recover? (yes I know I'm obsessed with him...)_  
Yes.

_3. Will El die! (yes I know random switch.)_  
Er, I didn't have any plans for it, and it would be tricky to do since he's my POV character. However, I don't yet know where the story is going, so I can't make any promises.

_4. This isn't going to get corny is it... sequels get corny..._  
I can't make any promises there, either. I'll try not to be any more corny than canon, though.


	3. El Mariachi

_El Mariachi_

El's thoughts raced. He carefully looked away from the dog, before anyone could notice that he had noticed. Who were these guys? Could they be connected to whomever was following him? He'd presumed his followers had spotted him with El Presidente and were either after revenge for themselves or after the cartel bounties on his head. It didn't make any sense. The couple at the first bar would have to be in on it, which was possible, of course, but there was no guarantee that El would choose to stop in this town at all.

He wondered if they had intended to drug him or poison him. The thought of poison made him think again of Sands.

_"El, get me a gun," Sands said one day. Sunlight, warm and cheery, streamed in the window of Sands's new room, but Sands could not see it._

_Why?"_

_Why do you think? I'm defenseless here."_

_El knew better than to take Sands's words at face value. And he found Sands's mood easy to read. "__If someone should kill you, it would solve your problems."_

_Yeah," he said._

_They were both silent, though El continued to pick a faint tune on his guitar._

_In a burst of nervous energy, Sands got to his feet. "El, I still want coke," he admitted in a voice full of despair. "It's all I want. It's either coke or a bullet."_

"_Is there nothing you could live for without cocaine?"_

"_Blind? No." Following the sunbeam, Sands walked unerringly to the window. El saw with approval that Sands had regained some weight._

"_I know you wanted revenge. And you wanted to escape."_

"_And look what it got me. I would have been better off to stay and enjoy the high until it killed me. Give me a gun and I'll solve both our problems."_

_El continued to play while he thought of what to say next. He finally settled on an odd truth. _"_It would be a waste of a lot of my work."_

"_Bullshit. Cut your losses. What are you saving me for?"_

"_If you really want to die, I will get Lorenzo."_

"_That poof? No way. I'll off myself before you get back, just to screw him."_

"_I could contact Señora Delgado. She would send someone to kill you."_

"_I'm sure not going to let some cartel be the ones."_

"_I'm not going to."_

"_You? A guitar assassin with jingly pants? I think not."_

"_When you decide who is good enough to kill you, let me know."_

"_I told you. I'll do it. Just give me a gun."_

"_Think of something else."_

Reluctant though El was to leave his lookout position, he felt he had to. He approached the bar, knelt down, and checked the dog. The dog's pulse beat rapidly. Drugged, not poisoned.

He stood and looked at the bartender. It was a baleful glare, delivered from under his long, dark hair, and it should have put fear into the heart of even a stout man. This man however, sneered. "So, what?" he asked.

Behind him, El heard three men enter the bar. The bartender tossed his head. "He's here," he said. El turned, expecting to see the handful of toughs who had been following him in a tan Pontiac. Instead, he saw a gaunt man wearing a tan suit, dark glasses, white shoes, and a light fedora. With him were two burly guards, weapons bulging beneath their tailored suit jackets. The man approached El and stepped around the dog. He looked El up and down and smiled.

"Don't get the beer," El said.

The man smiled even more broadly. "A misunderstanding. You look good." He gestured grandly toward the tables at the back of the room. "Shall we?"

"I have a table," said El with a glance toward the front.

The man followed his look and shook his head. "That's not the right table."

"It's just right for me," El said, and shouldered his way past the man with a dismissive shrug. He sat down and surveyed the street again. He didn't know what this man was about, and he didn't really care.

At the end of the street, the tan Pontiac appeared. El tensed inside. The Pontiac pulled up beside his jeep and parked. A man emerged from each of the four doors.

The gaunt man held a brief conversation with his companions, then joined El at his table. He removed his fedora and placed it on the table. El shifted fractionally, to keep his field of vision down the street clear. He saw the men glance around, give his jeep a brief survey, then square their shoulders and swagger into the bar.

"The look is perfect," the man said, "though I think you should be bigger. No one gave you any trouble?"

El focused on him. "No one gave me any trouble," he repeated, trying to make the man's words make sense. Then, cautiously, he added, "Not yet."

"What?" asked the man. "Do you expect trouble now? Did someone follow you?"

"That car," El said, nodding toward the other bar. What in Heaven's name did this man know of his business?

The man turned to look down the street, then gestured his two thugs over. "We'll take care of it," he said.

"_You'll_ take care of it?" asked El, startled.

"Of course," the man said, standing to give his instructions to his men. "It's not as if you're really El Mariachi, after all."

El sat dumbfounded as the two burly thugs and four other men from the bar rolled out the door and headed down the street.


	4. Bloodbath

_Bloodbath_

The gaunt faced man looked across at El with satisfaction. "There now." He tapped the tips of thin fingers on the tabletop. "I thought you might have that kind of trouble. I thought this disguise was ill-advised, but it amused him. He was confident in you."

"Do you pay the bar owners for the damage your men will do?"

The man stretched his lips. "Very funny. Now, I presume you have the item?"

Interesting. El focused on the other man. He doubted he would be able to maintain a deception for very long, when he had so little idea what was going on. He wondered for a moment what Sands would do in the same situation. Probably, he'd drag it out as long as he could, to see what he could learn.

"You were going to drug me and steal it," he said.

The man's eyes hardened. "A misunderstanding, I told you," he said. "That's not how he operates."

"I think you should pay me, first."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Pay you! Payment was made in advance, you idiot. You've done very well so far; this is no time to get stupid." He drew out a gun and pointed it at El. "Hand it over, now."

So much for continuing the deception. El shrugged mentally. He didn't really care what mess he'd stumbled into. He'd find out what he could, and then get away from here.

"You've sent all your help down the street," El said, allowing menace into his voice. "Do you think you can take me alone?"

The sound of gunfire erupted in the distance, centered on the other saloon.

From the side of his vision, El saw the bartender, the only man remaining in the club, reach swiftly beneath his bar. El was faster. Both spring-loaded pistols appeared in his hands. Aiming one at each man, he shot the bartender, dead, and shot the gun from the gaunt man's hand. His table companion yelped, leaped to his feet, and cradled his gun hand in the other arm.

"Sit down," El ordered him. "Hands on the table."

Furious, the man did not move. "Just who do you think you are?" he shrieked.

"I know who I am. I don't think you do. Sit down, or I'll kill you, too." He extended the arm holding the gun that had just fired at the man.

Fear and possibly, understanding, dawned on the man's thin face. He sat.

"What item am I supposed to have?" El asked.

"A book," said the man, looking around him in panic.

"What book?"

"I don't know," the man cried in a rush, "some rare Dumas book! Look, just go now, and no one will hurt you."

"How generous. Who is 'he'? Who do you work for?"

The man paled, leaped up, and made a dive for the door. El shot him reflexively. He collapsed at the doorway, a growing blood stain blossoming on his linen jacket.

Damn. El had meant to leave him alive. Oh well. He stood, picked up his guitar case, and walked to the bar. He opened the cash register, removed all the bills, and stuffed them in a pocket. At his feet the dog whined.

El looked down. The yellow dog, still lying on its side, thumped its tail against the wood floor. El reached down and scooped the dog into his free arm. He walked to the door, stepped carefully over the gaunt man's body, and stood for a moment in the street.

Gunshots still sounded from the other bar. A young boy in a yellow T-shirt, one of those who had fled from El before, crouched fearfully behind the black Mercedes out front. El was glad to see him. Carrying the dog meant he didn't have a free hand.

"You! Boy!" he called. The boy looked at him with wide dark eyes. "How would you like to make 100 pesos?"

The boy looked interested, but still did not speak.

"Take this knife," El struggled to extract a knife and a 100 peso note while still holding the dog and the guitar case, "and slash the tires on these cars. Then get out of here. Can you do that?" He gazed directly into the boy's eyes.

Nodding, the boy accepted the knife and the money.

"Do you know whose dog this is?" El asked in a conversational tone. The dog nuzzled its head into El's elbow.

"N-No one's, Señor," said the boy.

Shrugging, El palmed his pistol on his left hand so he was holding it beneath the dog's body. He strode out into the street, headed for the other bar.

A man, bleeding from a wound in his side, stumbled out of the first saloon, and scrambled into the tan Pontiac. El watched warily, but he squealed away from the building, back the way the car had come, not noticing him. The gaunt man's thugs stepped out of the door and looked in his direction. One of them put on sunglasses. Behind them came some of the men who had accompanied them from El Club Dumas, looking a bit disheveled. El continued walking, gripping his hidden pistol, and the group met him just beyond his jeep.

One bodyguard stopped and the others imitated him. El nodded to him, and veered toward his jeep. He put the dog on a seat, sheathing his pistol out of the other men's sight. He turned to face them.

The first bodyguard regarded him levelly, glanced past him toward El Club Dumas, then said, "Those men will give you no further trouble."

"Muchas gracias," said El.

After considering him a moment more, the group continued down the street, urgency in their pace. They were missing three of their original number. Three for three, and the cartel men had been outnumbered.

El looked inside. The place was a shambles and six bodies lay sprawled in pools of blood. He was glad to see no sign of the bar owner or his wife. He put the cash in his pocket into their register, and sped back out to his car. The dog whined a weak greeting.

"You just stay there," El said. He drove down the street, passing El Club Dumas, as frightened townsfolk started to emerge from nearby shops and homes. The young man who had placed a cell phone call was crouched over the body of the gaunt man, and saw him drive by. El heard him yell an alarm, and a few seconds later gunshots whistled by the jeep. One hand holding the dog on the seat, El slammed the pedal to the floorboard. In his rear-view mirror he saw men pile into the luxury cars outside El Club Dumas. By the time they were no longer in sight, not one of them had followed him, however.

_Good boy._


	5. Snake in the Dust

A/N: Thanks for putting up with my delays, everyone. I know I usually manage to post more often than this. Here's a short part, and another one is coming very soon.

Special thanks to Kerttu!

_Snake in the Dust _

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_  
El arrived in Guitar Town tired and dusty. He drove slowly through the square, returning the friendly waves of the men at work on the guitars. His slow speed kept the Jeep from covering the men in dust. He parked near the door to the old fort and looked at the dog. The dog still lay limp, though conscious. When El had stopped for groceries and beer he had tried to give the dog water to drink. The dog lay as if paralyzed, though one large brown eye followed El's every move, and its matted tail thumped enthusiastically any time El gave him any attention. El patted it and climbed out of the Jeep.

As he reached for a box of groceries, Father Soto, the genial priest who had married El to Carolina, ambled up.

"Welcome home, Son of Mexico," he said.

El felt his face go warmer than the afternoon sun was making it. He grunted noncommittally. He glanced at his clothes to see if there was any blood on him.

"I have something to tell you," Soto said gravely.

"Sands?" he asked, surprised by the dread he felt in his stomach.

"He's left."

El relaxed. Was that all? El put down the groceries and faced Soto.

"Where has he gone?" he asked.

"I don't know. I sent him away."

"What? Why?"

Soto pursed his lips and looked at El's groceries. "Let's have a beer," he suggested.

Impatient, El extracted a bottle, deftly snapped off the cap on one of the Jeep's many helpful protrusions, and handed it to the priest. Soto took a swig and smacked his lips.

"Did he kill someone?" El asked.

Soto shook his head.

"Then what?"

"The Perez girls," Soto said. "They had been visiting him, bringing food. He seemed better when they were there. He would talk to them."

"They don't speak English," said El.

"He would talk in Spanish," Soto said waggling his eyebrows. El was silent, meeting the man's gaze with his own expression of surprise.

"They would take him for walks."

"He went for walks?" asked El, even more amazed.

Soto nodded, drank some more beer, and looked down. "I left them alone. The girls liked him. I didn't realize how much." He looked up at El from under bushy eyebrows.

El groped behind him for the case of beer. He suddenly needed a drink. He went numbly through the routine of extracting and opening the bottle while Soto talked.

"The other day I walked in on them, in the act. Both girls, and Sands."

El sagged against the jeep and drank deep. He sighed, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He gave the priest a mischievous look. "He's feeling better, then."

The dog whined from the front seat, and managed a strained bark. He was feeling better, too, El hoped.

Soto cocked his head. "It's not funny," he said mildly. "I sent him away. I don't know where he went, but I thought you might want to take your groceries to your own house. The fort is empty."

El nodded. "Did you tell anyone?" he asked.

"I heard the girls' confessions," the priest replied, archly. "But, no, I didn't tell anyone."

"You sent a blind man away, alone?" El asked. "And you don't know where he went?"

Soto frowned. "Didn't you say Sands was responsible for the death of their abuelo?"

"Indirectly," El admitted.

"It is better that he is gone." Soto turned and returned to the guitar stalls. As he went, he held out the beer bottle and wagged it as thanks.

El didn't entirely agree. As much as he had wanted to be rid of Sands, he felt uneasy not knowing the man's condition and location. It was like knowing there was an injured snake loose in the house.

He took the food and the dog to his own house. The dog still could not stand, but his muzzle and throat were working now. El placed him on an old rug outside the door, and put down water in a bowl. The dog worked hard to drink. After a moment of watching his pathetic attempts to hold his head high enough to lap the water, El crouched down beside him and held his head up. He was reminded vaguely of holding the faucet hose for Sands to drink. The dog, at least, acted grateful, which was far more than Sands had. Three bowls of water later, the dog collapsed, exhausted, into sleep. The church bell tolled once. Five o'clock, time to say the rosary.

"I'll call you D'Artagnan," El said. He gave the dog a pat and set off for the Perez home.


	6. Sibling Rivalry

A/N: Still no Sands in the story, and now I am leaving town until June 3. Sorry.

_Sibling Rivalry_

The sisters Isabel and Sara were both at home, alone. Señora Perez had gone to the market in the next town. The girls' father and brother worked nine months out of the year in Mexico City.

Isabel ushered him into the small house with ill grace. El tried not to ogle. He remembered her as a rather unremarkable child only a couple of years ago, but she had ballooned into almost an exaggeration of a woman's form. What could once have been baby fat now padded all the most appropriate places, making her look like an overgrown squeeze toy. She wore dark lipstick, almost black, and dramatic shadowing around her eyes. Her clothing was snug and low-cut, both top and bottom. Her sister ghosted in the background, thin and boyish, wearing a modest school uniform.

The house smelled of cooking food, and El's stomach rumbled. The thought of a home-cooked meal not cooked by himself or Soto was very appealing. He wondered if he could get himself invited for dinner.

"I'm here about Señor Sands. Do you know where he went?"

Isabel showed no surprise at the question. "You mean Agent Sands?" she asked.

"Sí," he answered cautiously.

Isabel gave her sister a triumphant grin. "I told you," she said. Sara's sour countenance did not change.

El frowned. "Do you know where he went?"

Isabel put up her chin, which also thrust out her impressive bosoms. "Why would we know?" she said.

"He is a blind man; he would need help. He would need money and transportation. I'm guessing you helped him. Father Soto tells me you were very friendly with him."

Isabel affected a grandly affronted look. "What are you implying, Señor?" she demanded. Behind her, El saw Sara roll her eyes.

"I'm not implying anything. Father Soto told me exactly what happened." So much for getting invited to dinner.

Isabel's look of shock was more genuine. "That was under the seal of the confessional!" she cried.

"I told you," said Sara, with an evil grin.

El didn't know what was between these two, and he didn't care. "Niña, he walked in on you. That part wasn't under any seal." He strode farther into the house, in order to enter Isabel's personal space. "You're lucky he didn't tell everyone. I may still, if you don't tell  
me everything you know about Sands and where he went. I will certainly tell your father." Now he could see the small table set for dinner for two, with a string marketing bag occupying a third place.

"My father isn't here," Isabel said, uncertainly, backing up a step. Sara only watched.

"Mexico City may seem a long way away to you, but I can find your father."

Regaining her courage, Isabel said, "I didn't know you were a bully, El Mariachi."

"You learn something new every day. Where is he?"

"We don't know," Isabel said. El moved past her, looking around the house. He doubted that Señora Perez would hide a man in her home, but you never knew.

"Sara?" he asked. Perhaps sibling rivalry might help him, or perhaps the younger sister cared more about her reputation than the elder did.

Her reply surprised him. "Isabel thinks he's going to make her a movie star," she said.

"What?"

"He didn't say that," Isabel said. "He said I was beautiful enough to be a movie star."

"He's blind!" El said, a sense of unreality gripping him. It was hard to get information from someone when he couldn't use his guns. And even harder when they were irrational.

"I told you," Sara said to her sister.

"I know that," said Isabel. "He said he'd _heard_ I was beautiful enough to be a movie star." When El just looked at her, dumbfounded for the second time that day, she continued, "Well, he is an agent, right? You even said so."

_Dios_. El almost laughed. He couldn't shoot them or beat them, they didn't care about his threats, and … they were idiots! _Girls_! As his stunned brain searched for something to say, he noticed more closely the string bag on the dinner table. It held cooked flautas wrapped in thin paper, and two bottles of beer. He walked to it.

"Sara, who is coming to dinner?" he asked.

Isabel paled beneath her copious makeup. "That's … that's nothing," she said.

"Sara?" El asked, pleasantly. "You're delivering dinner to someone. Where is he?"

"He's still in the old convent," Sara said, walking slowly to the table.

"Sara!" her sister cried.

"Why should we keep it a secret from his friend?"

"You little bitch!"

El considered this information as the sisters yelled at each other. Why would Sands stay? Was he still too weak? Probably not if he was strolling around and screwing young girls. Still too depressed? Possibly.

"The Padre doesn't know?" he asked, musing.

"No," Sara said as Isabel looked daggers her. "He moved his things to a different area in the fort."

Things? Sands had almost nothing. Took his bedding, maybe. "Did he tell you why he stayed? Did he ask for anything?"

Silent, the girls looked at each other.

"What?" El asked.

Sara pointed to Isabel. "She gave him Esteban's gun."

"You gave him a gun!"

"He needed it," Isabel said. "Everyone else in town has one. Or three. Why not?"

"Because he's suicidal, that's why not!" El spun on a spurred heel and bolted out the door.

"I told you," he heard Sara say.


	7. Die Now or Later

A/N: I'm back from vacation.

_Die Now or Later  
_

El covered the distance to the fort at a trot. As he passed through the dusty square, the guitar makers waved to him - waves of urgency, not greeting, he thought, but he didn't have time to find out what they needed. He waved back - a wave of "I'll get back to you."

He passed his parked jeep and entered the main door of the old convent, drawing breath to yell for Sands. Then he realized what the villagers had meant to tell him. He was surrounded by a forest of guns, aimed at his vital parts.

His continued good health seemed best served by freezing, so he skidded to a stop on the tiled floor. Six men regarded him from behind eight guns. Two of the men were on the stairwell; four awaited him just inside the door. Now two of those approached him. "Hands on your head!" one of them ordered.

El obliged. Careful to keep him covered, despite the many other guns performing that function, the two men searched El and removed his weapons, even finding the two pistols up his sleeves. Then they twisted his arms behind him and held him fast.

A seventh man, not holding a gun, and younger than any of the others, appeared from the other side of the stairs. He walked forward, giving El an appraising look.

"So this is the great El Mariachi," he said. He looked barely out of his teens, a handsome boy with long dark hair pulled back at his neck.

El sighed. "That's what they always say," he said.

The young man stood just in front of El. "My name is Miguel Julio Delgado Enriquez. You killed my father."

"Prepare to die?" El finished for him.

The young man's eyes narrowed. "Not until you return my uncle's fortune. Then you will die for many reasons. My father, my uncles, cousin, everything."

_Everything_. El and Sands had destroyed so much of the Delgado empire, it was hard to imagine what base this new generation was working from. In fact . . . El studied the men with Enriquez more closely. They didn't look right. Elaborate tattoos, piercings, men whose clothing marked them as rural thugs from places far from central Mexico. At least one Indian. Ruffians more than professionals. Enriquez had had to recruit budget help.

"It is a great fortune," El said. "Will you share it with these men?"

One of the men holding him clubbed him with his gun. El saw stars.

Enriquez twisted his handsome face into a semblance of a snarl. "Where are the jewels? If you'd fenced them already, you wouldn't be living here."

"No, I have them," El replied conversationally. "Many of them are at least four carats, they tell me. One such diamond would make a man very rich. I'm surprised you are so trusting of your men, here. Are you sure you pay them well enough?"

"Shut up," Enriquez spat. He produced a Glock and leveled it at El's head, pointing right between El's eyes. It was a good choice. El would die instantly. "Tell me where they are or you die now."

El's heartbeat pounded in his ears. He was more than ready to die - had been for some time - but he did not wish for it. A lifetime of regrets flooded him, from regrets immense and unbearable to regrets as simple as he did not eat a comfortable dinner with the Perez girls.

"I die now, or I die later. There's not much difference to me. I think the diamonds stay where they are," he said. He waited for death to at least relieve him of the pain of anxiety in his chest.

Angry, Enriquez's voice shook. "I will tear you apart for them. Then I will tear this place down and I will tear down your house and the houses of your neighbors. If I still haven't found them, I will destroy everyone in this sorry crap-house of a village until I find them."

El wasn't worried about the threat to the people of the village. The villagers were armed, fairly well trained, and they were aware of the danger. In fact, it occurred to him to wonder if they might be mounting a rescue expedition. He sincerely hoped not. El was bound to die by the gun someday; he only hoped to involve as few innocents in his fate as possible. The villagers had sheltered him - at some risk to themselves - rescuing him from his fate had never been part of the deal.

But now, El realized to his dismay, no village could be left in peace after it had offended a cartel. All these men would have to die.

Something clicked in his head, and he had a plan.

"All right, all right," he said, allowing his voice to quaver. "I'll take you to the diamonds."

He led them through the halls of the fort, to the small renovated quarters where he had lived with his family before their house was finished. His daughter, tiny inquisitive hands, and a toddler's penchant for getting into everything, had found the perfect hiding place. While the exterior walls of the fort had been built with a meter and a half of now crumbling adobe, many of the interior walls had been reinforced with sun-baked clay bricks. These bricks had been excavated when modern plumbing was put in, and a leaky pipe had further eroded the backs of three large bricks at almost floor-level in one room. The brick fronts yielded to prying hands revealing a hidden niche large enough for a tiny mischievous child. There El had placed the small black bag of diamonds, but they had been an afterthought. Primarily he used the niche as a gun closet, keeping his collection of weapons away from Sands. He had guns in there now. Loaded guns.

He wondered for a moment where Sands was and winced at the thought that the man might have already done himself harm and be lying dead in a chamber somewhere. Alternately, now would be an excellent time for a rescue from someone not an innocent. El's plan did not include a way to save his own life. He would likely be cut down in the process, so he hoped to stay alive long enough to keep squeezing the trigger and take out all seven men. Help would be very welcome.


	8. Pearls Before Swine

A/N: Thanks so much all you reviewers!

You have so often "complained" about my cliffhangers, that I feel I owe you a warning. I _look_ for cliffhangers. I try for them. If I can't end on a cliffhanger, I'm bummed. Sometimes I won't post until I can get to one. So please don't be too surprised when I leave you on a cliff, okay?

_Pearls Before Swine_

"Well?" demanded Enriquez once they stood inside the empty room. "Where are they?" The room had an open window and one door to a tiny bathroom, not unlike the prison El had locked Sands in for detox, except Sands's room was interior and had had no window.

"Here," El said, kneeling down and prying out one of the bricks. The hole was dark and appeared deeper than it was. "Go ahead and take them." He sat back on his heels and looked at the men. "If anyone should want to share these diamonds, I would not oppose them. I just ask to be left alone."

Enriquez shoved his gun into El's face again. "Shut up!" he yelled. "Get them out here!"

El shrugged and reached in. He was not surprised that no one wanted to reach an unprotected hand into the dark unknown, but he knew he had fixed the leaky pipe, and the small chamber was now quite dry and vermin free. His hand fell on a spare sleeve pistol, and he maneuvered it into his empty sleeve, while still making "feeling around" motions as if he searched for the diamonds. He found the velvet bag and brought it out. Enriquez grabbed for it, but El snatched it just past the man's hand and dumped its contents on the floor.

Beautiful faceted gems tumbled and scattered, refracting sunlight in sublime twinkling beams. Better than pearls before swine, El thought, admiring the graceful treasure. Time stopped in the room, until Enriquez, torn, pulled his gun away from El's face in order to turn and regard his rapt men with suspicion. "No one move," he ordered, aiming the gun vaguely between two of his men. "Mariachi, pick those up."

El picked out the man he guessed was more the leader of the thugs. He resembled El Cucuy, Sands's man who had betrayed him for money. "Should I?" he asked, innocently.

Enriquez swung the gun back to El. "Do it!" he yelled.

El looked at "Cucuy," who smiled slowly. "No," said the thug. "Rata, you get them."

El stood up. Enriquez pointed his gun at the Indian, whom El guessed was Rata. "I am in charge here!" Enriquez screamed. "Dole, shoot Tino!"

"We will share the diamonds!" shouted "Cucuy," aiming at Enriquez.

A tinderbox that needed a spark. El shook his pistol free of his sleeve and shot Enriquez in the heart.

Two other men shot "Cucuy." Rata turned his gun on them. One of the remaining men, seeing El as the real enemy, shot at him, but El was already leaping for the window, shooting. Rata and three other men fell before he reached the window, but explosive pain ripped through his thigh and El slammed to the floor. The calculating part of his brain still functioned, desperate. One man left. El forced open his eyes, saw the man raise his gun, and he squeezed his own numb trigger finger.

But his gun was not in his hand.

El looked at the man in despair, and another shot sounded in the room. The last thug collapsed out of El's range of vision. Behind him, in the doorway, smoke trailing from the barrel of his gun, stood Sands.

"Sands," El croaked.

The agent cocked his head very slightly. El could almost see the intensity of his listening. "Are they all down?" he asked.

"Si," El said, fighting waves of pain and nausea. "What kept you?"

Sands entered the room, slowly. When his foot encountered a body, he squatted down and patted the man down. "There you go again, El," he said, standing. "Assuming I'm on your side." He leveled his gun accurately at El. "Drop your guns and move away from the diamonds."

"I can't," El said, feeling something like grief at another betrayal.

"Don't fuck with me, Mariachi. I'll make you the eighth corpse in here if you get in my way."

El was likely to be the eighth corpse soon, anyway, just from blood-loss. He could feel shock setting in. Part of him wanted to wail that he'd been shot, but a sudden stubborn streak refused to let him ask Sands for help.

"Sands, I have never lied to you," said El. "And I would have given you the diamonds."

Sands moved on to searching another corpse, his gun never leaving El. "Half. I decided half isn't good enough. Couldn't figure out how I would get you to lead me to them, though."

"You contacted the Delgados?"

Sands said nothing. He searched another body.

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure they're dead. Looking for cash, guns . . . maybe coke." His voice caught on the last word.

The edges of El's vision were shrinking as if he were seeing the room through a gray tunnel. "You know what your problem is, Sands?" Even his own voice was sounding far away. "You don't trust the right people."

Now Sands was collecting the diamonds. "Are you going to live?" he asked, as if it were of only casual interest.

"That depends . . . on you," El said, before sinking into darkness. He had time to wonder if he would ever wake again.


	9. Dreaming

_Dreams_

He woke many times, but never fully. Hands and voices and pain . . . somewhere someone screamed. He hoped it was not him, for he had vowed not to give them that satisfaction ...

Pain, he had learned to deal with pain, hadn't he? But it hurt so much. Would it never end? The pain had a landscape; if he writhed in his torment, this movement hit a wall of agony, that movement sent him off a precipice into darkness, but never a darkness of escape, only of nightmare and distant pain.

He dreamed. His dreams had handguns and hopelessness. Time after time he faced confident enemies only to discover he had forgotten to bring his own guns. People died, old friends, women and children, because of his negligence. Some dreams were more fractured, less coherent. He was blind, and trying to find something in the dark - something important. Diamonds the size of boulders rolled like giants' dice, and he had to dodge them or be crushed. His leg felt crushed - one diamond held a prisoner inside, a huge, red-colored spider that scrabbled in its prison, then broke free. It bore down on El, whose leg was trapped in a crevice, and somehow shrank and went in his mouth and down his throat. Agent Sands, his laughing eyes intact, shot him, but the bullet only exploded his guitar and then ruined his hand . . .

Thirsty, he was thirsty. And so hot, if only he could move away from the volcano's rim…

He'd been here before, shot, feverish, fearful and in pain. It was familiar territory, so when he realized hands were putting something in his mouth, he struggled to swallow it. Water he swallowed gratefully, too, though at times there seemed to be a tube in his throat where the spider had gone.

Finally he surfaced, though the pain sharpened with returning consciousness, back to reality. He heard women's voices. Not Carolina. Carolina was dead - the grief stabbed him as if the memory were fresh, then muted when he remembered this was a different time, a different grief. Betrayed . . . betrayed for money. Fucking Sands.

He cracked open his eyes and saw his bedroom. He lay in his own bed, the bed he had shared with Carolina. The light was dim, though it was day. Rain, he realized. Outside it was raining. One arm lay on top of the covers, an IV needle in his vein. Whatever was entering his blood came from a plastic bag hanging on an IV pole beside his arm. That was surprising. Not his usual bedroom décor. Also strange was the fact that someone was licking his hand. El tipped his head minutely, enough to see D'Artagnan on the bed below his arm, licking and wagging his voluminous tail.

Señora Perez and Isabel were talking beside the bed, toward the foot. As he moved his gaze around, adjusting to this reality, El saw Sands sitting on a chair by the door.

Sands? Dammit, hadn't Father Soto ordered him away?

El tried to speak, but his throat was dry and sore. Also, now that he was fully conscious, pain from his leg grew into a wave that overtook him, so that he barely noticed as the dog barked and Señora Perez bustled to his side, fussing. He did notice when she gave him water and a pill, though, and he accepted both, not hearing whatever she was saying. He closed his eyes then, waiting. He knew this routine; the pain pill would restore him to some semblance of coherence in time. Meanwhile, he had to endure.

He heard the women's voices around him grow excited and then fade. Throughout it all, the calculating, ever protective part of El's mind stayed focused on Sands. Where he was, any movement he made, anything he said - Sands was the threat here, and El kept his mind's eye on him.

When the pain dulled to a manageable level, El found himself alone with Sands and the dog. Now able to focus more beyond himself, El noticed that Sands was cleaning a gun, a collection of handguns and rifles piled neatly at the foot of his chair.

"Sands," he whispered through his sore throat. The dog, excited to hear his voice, leapt up the bed and began licking El's face. The exuberant bouncing on his bed shot bolts of agony through El's thigh.

Sands, still imitating motions made by the sighted, tipped his head as if he were looking up at El. "It's alive," he said.

El rolled his head so he could breathe something other than dog breath. "Give me a gun," he said, his voice clearer, though still thick.

"You don't have to shoot it, just push the dog off you."

"I was going to shoot you."

"Wal, that's a fine how-d'ya-do for the guy who saved your life."

As they spoke, El was smothered with dog kisses. One hand was free, and El tried to capture and remove the dog with it. "If you'd shot sooner, you could have saved my leg. You waited to see who ended up with the stones."

"Geez, if you really want the warm fuzzy, remember I could have shot that guy _after _he finished you off."

There was truth in that, El's tactical brain told him, treacherously. It also unhelpfully provided an image of the battle scene, with Sands at the doorway with almost no cover. Had he shot while many gunmen still lived, he would have drawn fire he had no protection from. Still, he clearly hadn't cared whether El was one of those who went down or not. And the whole situation was his fault.

"Would you … take the dog?" El was forced to beg. He almost couldn't breathe, and the dog was hurting him with every bounce.

"I'm not touching that mutt. He's bit me twice."

"Good boy," said El.


	10. Waking

_Waking_

This made D'Artagnan even happier. He leaped back and forth across El, exacerbating the problem, and licking furiously. "D'Artagnan, no. Down," El said. "Help?" he called, weakly. His strength truly was fading. He knew that from experience, too. He'd only stay conscious for short periods at first, and then would need rest, his body using all its resources to heal.

Señora Perez, Father Soto, Isabel, and another woman from the village, all piled into the room, wearing broad smiles. Mercifully, someone removed D'Artagnan, but El was fading fast and couldn't find the strength to thank them. He slept.

He woke not too much later though, when the painkiller wore off. The rain still drummed on the roof and windows. Despite himself, he groaned. Sara arrived in his hazy field of vision, with water and two pills. He swallowed them, but decided not to wait for them to take effect before asking some questions. He didn't want her to go and leave him with only Sands. The agent still sat on a chair by the door, but now, rather than cleaning the guns, he seemed to be caressing them.

"Sara," he said, indicating the IV pole with a gesture, "is there a doctor?" Their village only had a midwife, no doctor.

"We got the doctor from Aguadulce to come. You had a lot of medical supplies in your cellar."

That was right. He and Carolina had seemed to need a lot of doctoring, and usually they had only each other to do it.

"You got lucky," Sands commented from across the room, in English, which would be meaningless to Sara. "Those toads must have been using military surplus. Their rounds were FMJs, not hollow points."

"Sara, do you know how bad my leg is?"

"The doctor doesn't know if it hit the bone or not, but if your bone is undamaged, then it isn't very bad. Do you want some more water? We're supposed to give you water and pills whenever you're awake. The doctor is bringing back something to put in your drip so you don't have to take the pills."

El waved off the water. "He's from Aguadulce?" he asked, vaguely trying to remember something.

Sara nodded.

El wheezed, his lungs sore. This was new. Actually, it was old. Marquez had shot him in the chest and his lungs had hurt throughout his recovery. It was as if this recent ravage of his body had activated ancient injuries. Great. More pain.

Sands spoke again. "I told them you'd be able to tell us if your thigh bone was hit or not. You know, from your vast experience of being shot."

That was preposterous. Except, actually, it wasn't. He knew well the splintered, grinding feeling of broken or shattered bones. All he had to do was move around some in the right ways, and yes, he probably would be able to tell. But he wasn't going to experiment just yet. He was still fighting tsunamis of pain. He closed his eyes and floated.

He heard Sara leave the room.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked in English when he felt up to conversing with the bastard in his house.

"You brought me here, you ought to know."

"You should take the fucking diamonds and go back to the United States."

"No, I don't think so."

"Why not? No one wants you here. Screwing young girls, inviting cartel men into my village . . . I'll kill you myself when I can."

"Fine. _Now_, you're willing to kill me. If I'd known all it took was some shagging …"

"You're disgusting. They're children."

Sands shrugged. "Gee, your Honor, she certainly felt old enough."

El lowered his voice. Even speaking English, he knew how names tended to carry. "And Sara? Did she feel old enough for you, or do you just live to kill cooks and molest children?"

"Hey, she was there. It was hardly polite to make her watch and not invite her. You'd have done the same thing."

El looked around for something to throw at him. "I hope D'Artagnan bit you hard."

"Considering I'm the one sitting here with an arsenal, you're talking pretty big." Sands sounded mildly amused. El should have been relieved he hadn't pushed the psycho the wrong way, but anger had worked through his pain, and he didn't care what Sands did so long as he left.

"Go away and leave us all alone. Leave my whole country alone."

"And I'll have you know, I'm Mr. Popularity around here for saving you. Even the Padre has given me amnesty for now."

"Why don't you leave? Doesn't the CIA want you back? Or are they glad to be rid of you? What's Mexico to them, anyway? A place to dump their failures?" These last words came out very wheezy. The burst of strength anger had given him was exhausted, and El felt a fever wash over him leaving behind a chill.

Sands leaned forward. "There are only two countries that physically border the U.S. Do you really think our fuck-ups are sent there, moron? Now, you need to tell me some things before you conk out again. What happened on your way here? If you were really so dumb that you let yourself be followed, you'd never have lived this long."

"Fuck you," El said, and sank into a feverish sleep, passing through a realm of his subconscious where some part of his mind was still working on the problem of Aguadulce.

The next time he woke it was night. His eyes adjusted quickly while his ears and nose told him it was still raining. In the corner, on the chair, Sands slept, his lanky body draped in a sprawl, his head tipped forward onto his chest. In his lap he held a repeating rifle and his sunglasses lay spilled on the floor nearby. El studied him for a while, listening to the rain. His pain stayed distant, as if he had left it behind in his sleep. Something about Sands's posture - he looked like … a guard. Was El a prisoner? Ridiculous, surely, but it was the mysterious time of night when all El's regrets and fears came out to play.

"Sands," he whispered.

The agent jerked to alertness, gripping the rifle at the ready.

"What?" he whispered back, cocking his head.

"What are you doing?"

Slowly Sands relaxed. El saw him take a deep breath. The movement put his head up to where El could see the empty eyesockets. In the dark Sands looked like a poster child for the Day of the Dead.

"Making sure we're ready if Señora sends any more grandsons our direction." Sands stood and stretched his long limbs, still gripping the rifle by the barrel. "You want a beer?" He pushed open the bedroom door and stepped through it.

"You double-crossed them," El called after him. "And you have their diamonds. It's you they'll be coming for."

Sands re-entered, holding two beer bottles. He approached and held one out. El took it, though he knew perfectly well he shouldn't be mixing it with his medicines. Sands undoubtedly knew that too. Sands sat back down and drank.

"El," Sands said, wearily, sounding more like the disheartened creature El had left behind when he'd gone to see the President, "for some stupid reason, I love that you think I set this up. I only set things up if I can watch them fall, and I can't watch shit anymore."

El considered what he was saying. "You . . . didn't call the Delgados?"

"If I had let that genie out, it would have been damn hard to get it back in the bottle." Sands drank again. "Once, I could have done it . . ."

"So, how did they find me? Us."

"Exactimundo. Someone must have followed you."

"Someone did. But I ditched them."

"Tell me everything. The pills are on the table by your head. I tried some. They're lip-smacking good."


	11. Dawn

A/N: My apologies for being away so long. Back now.

------------------------------------------

El knew a moment of doubt that he could stay alert for a long story, but realized how important it might be. He took some more pills and washed them down with the beer, harboring his strength. Then he told Sands what had happened.

Sands questioned him closely about many details, and seemed to find significance in things El didn't.

"El Club Dumas?" he asked. "You're shittin' me."

"No. Why?"

"Nothing, go on."

Sands questioned him in great detail about the bar. El was forced to recall everything he could of the layout, the furniture, the men inside, and all of the strange decorations on the wall.

"Why do you want to know this?"

"You never know what might be important. Keep going."

So El explained how some El Mariachi impersonator had been expected, thinking Sands might find that important, but Sands only laughed. And continued to laugh as El tried to finish the tale. Coming from a man El had heard scream with agony, anger, and with terror, the laughter sounded unnatural. "What is so damn funny?" he asked, finally done with the story, and sinking again toward sleep.

"It's fucking idiotic, that's all. You want to protect your goods from bandits, so you make it look like they're being carried by some famous badass. But when the badass you picked has a price on his head . . . this is so twisted, I think I know who it is."

"Who?" El asked, hearing his own voice from a distance.

"A aranha vermelha," Sands said.

What? El's tired brain fished around for meaning. Not English, not Spanish, but . . . oh. Portuguese. La araña roja. The red spider.

Now that was an odd thing for Sands to say, he thought, and he began again to dream.

This time he was aboard a spaceship, with a long row of people in suspended animation. But as he walked down the dark hall, the brightly lit containers became crystals holding large insect-like beings. At the end of the row a crystal held a large red spider. El's dream-self became annoyed. "I get it," he said, and woke himself up.

Lustral light in the pre-dawn showed his familiar bedroom still with an alien occupant. Sands slept in a makeshift bedroll not too different than the one he'd been lying on for weeks, half-dead from depression and the physical after effects of his months-long cocaine binge. But now he lay across El's closed bedroom door without even a mattress, looking for all the world like a Sancho protecting Don Quixote. El banished that thought hastily. Sands would never play Sancho, and he'd probably pop Quixote in the head for taking on windmills like a dumbshit. But still, there he was, sleeping across the door, a cache of loaded guns under one outflung arm. The room reeked of cigarette smoke. He hadn't noticed that before.

El's head felt more clear than it had since before he'd been shot. The medicine, he realized, had been adding to his muzziness. He was free of it at the moment, and the pain from his thigh was still tamed. El moved to see if he could sit up. Agony lanced through him and he froze, gasping. The new pain continued to burn like a flame, but faded gradually as if it were out of fuel. Cautiously, he reached for the pitcher of water and a glass; poured, and drank. Then he drank again, until the pitcher was empty. All the while he studied the room, particularly the chair where Sands had been sitting. He did not see the black velvet bag that held Delgado's diamonds.

Not that he had expected to. Sands undoubtedly had the gems on him somewhere. El sighed. If he wanted to see the diamonds, he was going to have to talk to the agent.

One thing he did see - Father Soto's battery operated radio/tape deck stood on a table next to Sands's chair, its insides exposed in a jungle of wires and other parts. Huh. El remembered the guitar he had given Sands as a possible crutch to help distract him from the worst of his cravings. Sands had smashed it into kindling. But the radio he had used until the batteries died. Had he now taken out another fit on the boom box?

So many mysteries only Sands could explain. La aranja roja was the foremost. "Sands," El said, his voice strong and clear. Sands did not move. "Sands," he called again. The man made no response. "Shelly," El tried. Nothing.

All El's senses snapped into full alert. Was Sands a corpse on his doorstep? Damn, why hadn't he insisted Sands give him a gun? Where was the dog? The rain had stopped; the increasing dawn-light was yellow - not filtered through rain clouds. The smell of smoke! No, he had been right. It was cigarette smoke, and fairly recent. Sands had been alive not too long ago. "Sands!" he yelled.

From beyond the door came barking. Sands did not move. The door shuddered as the excited dog leaped against it. After three prods in his side from the bowing door, Sands moved slightly. "What the fuck?" he asked, weakly, his hand closing on a shotgun.

Relief and concern flooded El at once. "It's the dog!" he yelled. "Don't shoot it." But Sands showed no sign of his earlier quick reactions. He got slowly to his feet, using the shotgun for a lever, and dropped onto the chair. "What kind of sentry are you?" El demanded. "You don't even wake up?"

Sands rubbed a palm across his forehead and empty eye sockets. "Yeah," he said, "either I can't sleep at all or I sleep in a fucking coma. What time is it? And what the hell did you want?"


	12. A Aranha Vermelha

A/N: Thanks so much, you reviewers! I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to each of you. Vickevire, I hope this update is quick enough for you.

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Outside the door, the dog whined and scrabbled.

"I want . . . Why is the dog inside?"

"Oh, did you want a mean dog? You keep a dog tied up outside and it'll turn mean on you, or hadn't you noticed. Even that slavering sycophant will go all vicious and mean. But we can do that if you like."

"Dogs belong out of doors."

"Dogs are pack animals. They belong with the pack. But, hey, he's your dog. Now what did you want? And it better not be a change of diapers."

"I want to see the diamonds."

"Is that all? Like that's gonna happen. Why?"

"It's. . . there was a flaw. Who is The Red Spider?"

"A flaw? What kind of flaw?"

"I don't remember. I have dreams about a spider in a . . . a diamond, and then you said . . . Just hold the fucking diamonds so I can see them. How do you think I am going to rob you?"

Sands appeared to consider that.

"It's after dawn," El told him. "Other people might be here soon."

Sands muttered something under his breath and turned away. When he turned back he held the small velvet bag Julio Delgado had used to carry his fortune. "Do you need light?" he asked, grudgingly.

"Si," El said. Sands flipped the light switch by the door. He approached El's bed, but stopped a healthy distance from him. He removed a diamond from the bag and held it up.

"No, not that one," El said.

Sands held up a second.

"No," again.

Sands took out a third one.

"Wait," said El. "Let me see that one."

"You can see it from here."

"Let me have it. I want to see it better." El held out his hand before realizing that meant nothing to Sands.

"You return it to me," Sands said with steel in his tone, "or I'm letting the dog in."

El swallowed. The threat was real. He hadn't forgotten how painful his attempt to sit up had been. The exuberance of the dog would be agonizing. "All right, all right," El said. If he complained to any of his other caretakers, Sands could just play innocent. Reuniting a man with his loving dog.

Sands placed the velvet bag next to the remains of the radio, well out of El's reach. Then he approached again, holding out the diamond. His steps were a bit uncertain, as if he couldn't quite judge how close to come. El took the diamond when he could reach it, and Sands snapped his hand back.

El held it up to the light. There, beneath the facets, was the spindly-looking flaw he almost remembered. The diamond was also remarkable in that it had a faint reddish cast to it. El didn't know enough about gems to say whether the stone he held was more or less valuable for its color and cracks.

"Here," El said. Sands came forward with his own hand out, and El placed the stone on his palm.

"Well?" Sands asked.

"Well, what? I've seen it now."

"What does it look like?"

"Who is The Red Spider?"

"God damn it, Mariachi, answer the question!"

"You answer mine first."

"I'm letting that dog in here."

"Go ahead. You can always show the diamond to someone else and have them describe it for you." Sands was reaching for one of his guns, his hands shaking. El eyed him warily. "Or shoot me. That will get you what you want to know. Why does it matter so much?"

Sands left the guns alone and whirled back to face the bed. "What does the diamond look like?" he repeated tightly. "You really shouldn't fuck with me."

El considered that. Sands really had shot that cook in Culiacan, El had learned. Not that he'd doubted the man would - El had seen the insane glee simmering in the agent's eyes. No, Sands had been far from stable then, and now, how much worse was his mental state? Still, El felt instinctively that Sands could be bargained with. It was showing weakness that was a bad idea.

"Who is the Red Spider? Tell me, and I'll tell you. I know you've already guessed, but you can't know for sure until I tell you, right?"

Sands spun and paced, one hand cocked just a little in front of him. When he reached the wall, he kicked it. "I hate you," he said, like a temperamental child.

El laughed. "Yes, I am such a bad man."

Sands raised a fist and pummeled the wall. Then he turned his back to the wall and slid down it until he was sitting inches from the crumpled blanket and pillow he had been using in front of the door. "The Red Spider," he said, conversationally, as he extracted a cigarette and his lighter, "was an international crimelord. Russian, originally. Espionage, drugs, guns, any commodity that would sell. He moved his main base to somewhere in Portugal. As hard as we tried, we never found it. He was also a Class A twisted sicko. Not in the usual ways." Sands lit his cigarette and took a deep drag. "I think he did trade in girls, and maybe boys, but so far as we could tell, not for himself. Sometimes we did business with him - his intelligence was always good, but ultimately he was too much of a pain in the ass." He took another drag.

"Why?"

"He liked to play games. He'd send you on treasure hunts, or set up some huge scheme that turned out to be a pun. A multi-lingual pun. He was a collector of really weird shit. The crushed bike Evil Knieval killed himself on. Vladimir Komarov's space suit."

"Who?"

"Cosmonaut whose 'chute didn't deploy on his way back from space. Crashed and died in the steppes of Russia. Everyone has a bad day."

"Morbid."

"He'd go out of his way to own pyramids, crystals, stolen tomb treasures. He was going through a Dumas phase when he evaporated about ten years ago. We never heard a thing from him again."

"Why was he called The Red Spider?"

"He was Red back when the Reds were Red, you know? He picked up the name Spider in Portugal because of all the webs he was part of. He liked the name and started signing his shit with it. I wonder what he'd give for a diamond with a spider in it. Is that what I've got?"

"Yes. The diamond is reddish-colored, too."


End file.
